


Bullet for the Devil

by ThirtySixSaveFiles



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Cop AU, Jack’s not a very good cop but he might make a good mob boss, M/M, the violence tag is more for the aftermath of violence than the actual act
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 08:45:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14233599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirtySixSaveFiles/pseuds/ThirtySixSaveFiles
Summary: Jack’s spent too long on the force to ignore his instincts, and right now every bone in his body is screaming that Rhys Sommerset in apartment 2B isguilty.Guilty of what - Jack doesn’t know yet. But he’ll find something.





	Bullet for the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> This has its roots in the bad cop au tag on my tumblr, so thank you to that long ago Anon who sent the idea in. Thank you also to scootsaboot for the beta!

“Did you hear?” Nisha drops into the flimsy chair next to Jack’s desk. One day it’s going to collapse underneath her and spill her right on her ass, and Jack’s going to laugh when it does.

“Hear what?” Jack leans back from the keyboard gratefully, stretching and popping his back. Computerized forms are theoretically a step forward, but sometimes it feels like one back with the way the department’s systems don’t talk to one another. The copy machine had never cared what format his files were in.

“Simmons squealed. No, don’t get up.” Nisha smacks him in the arm with a file folder as Jack starts to push himself up. “They’re not letting you back in there. I think you’ll like these though.” She shoves the file in Jack’s direction until he takes it. “They had him closeted with a sketch artist for two hours. Happy Birthday.”

“You’re shitting me.” Jack opens the file and flips through the contents. Some of the sketches have already been matched up with mug shots, others are too general to be of any use, but the District Attorney has been leaning on Simmons for days - Jack imagines she’s bleeding him dry. Might as well; unless his public defender’s wrangled him a hell of a protection deal, Jack’s not putting odds on a long and healthy life for Simmons after this. The last syndicate grunt they’d scooped had lasted three days after leaving police custody; the one before hadn’t even made it that far.

Jack pauses over one of the last few drawings. It could just be his imagination, but - he pulls it out to inspect more closely.

“You got an ID on that one? Simmons tagged him as the guy in charge, although he didn’t have name. The sketch hasn’t tripped facial recognition, either.”

It wouldn’t. It’s not a perfect likeness, but the longer Jack stares at it, the more sure he is that he’s seen this face before.

It would be a wild, improbable coincidence if he’s right. _If_ he’s right.

“No,” he says after a too-long pause. “I’m just - I’m gonna make a copy of this, all right? Don’t look at me like that,” he says, standing and glancing at William’s office. The door is closed, the blinds on the windows drawn, as always. The captain might not even be here. “It’s probably nothing.”

“Yeah, because you always make that face over ‘probably nothing,’ “ Nisha says, trailing him to the copy maker. “C’mon, what’s up? You seen that guy before?”

 _Almost every day_ , Jack doesn’t say as the copier whirrs in the face of Nisha’s expectant silence. He catches the duplicate in his hands, still warm from the fuser.

“It’s probably nothing,” he repeats, looking at the face of his downstairs neighbor.

 

* * *

 

Jack will be the first to admit he’s not a poster-child for the department. That distinction goes to Roland, meticulous and by-the-book and somehow impervious to the shit that sprays when things get messy. Jack has heard that he’s a good candidate for captain when Williams retires; Jack doesn’t doubt that that’s true.

If Jack was ever in running for that spot he’s missed his chance; one too many infractions for using excessive force, perhaps, or maybe one too many incidents of firing his gun on duty. Either way he’s pretty sure he’s reached what his brother insists on referring to as “the asshole ceiling;” too good at his job to fire, too much of a liability to promote any further.

And he _is_ good at his job. He’d brought in Harold Tassiter, for Christ’s sake. Jack’s got instincts, the kind that have gotten him out of as many scrapes as they’ve gotten him into. The kind that have gotten him sidelong glances as he holds the stakeout an extra hour or two, long enough to scoop up an unlucky suspect who thought the side streets were safe; the kind that has him leaning on the wrong kind of suspects who turn out to the the _right_ kind of suspects after an hour or five in interrogation. The kind that lets him look at an angular, half-completed sketch and see the face of Apartment 2B.

Jack runs the name through every system he has access to (and some that he’s not supposed to) before he leaves. Rhys Sommerset, age 29. Apartment 2B, Bellwether Ave NE. CEO and founder of Atlas Inc., a minor startup. Owns a mid-size sedan. Last year’s model, dark red. No criminal history, no tangles with law enforcement, not associated with any names Jack recognizes. Pays his utility bills on time. One parking ticket in the last year, paid the next day.

Jack drums fingers on the sketch, staring at his screen. Sommerset looks like a model citizen. Jack knows there’s no such thing.

Jack pulls up the Atlas website, but it’s hardly any more edifying, all black and white photos and smooth-scrolling tabs. There are a couple of very artfully arranged semi-casual photos of Rhys in there: smiling at the head of a conference table full of attentive listeners; head bent close to an employee, face thoughtful and serious; laughing at something off camera, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. One flesh, one metal; the prosthetic is pretty advanced, from the looks of it, and isn’t that interesting. The website is more style than substance, though; after browsing for close to fifteen minutes, Jack isn’t sure what Atlas actually _does_. “Leveraging techno-personal resources” sounds like so much bullshit to him.

Jack leans back in his chair and rubs his eyes. It’s late. He should go home. Things will - things will look more reasonable in the morning.

Home means pausing on the street, though, letting his bike idle under him as he looks up into the brightly-lit windows of apartment 2B. The blinds are only partially drawn, and Jack can see movement inside.

As he watches, the light in the main room blinks off, leaving only the bedroom window lit.

Jack shakes himself, picking his feet up and letting the bike coast into underground parking. As the gate rattles shut behind him he kills the engine and sits a moment, listening to the tick as it cools.

It would be monumentally stupid to knock on Rhys’ door. The man’s probably going to bed. He might have company. He might not answer. There’s no reason Jack’s curiosity can’t wait until morning.

 

* * *

 

Rhys answers the door on the fourth knock, just as Jack’s convincing himself to give it up for the night. He looks sleepy and mussed, a thin pair of pants clinging to his hips and a soft robe falling open across his chest. Blue ink decorates his collarbone and peeks out from his left wrist as he leans on the hand holding the door open.

Jack has the sketch memorized by now, and Rhys’ face matches it line for line.

“Yes?” Rhys sounds politely irritated. It _is_ late, but before Jack can answer Rhys’ eyes sweep him up and down and he straightens, looking more awake. “Oh - 3C, right? I’m Rhys,” he says, extending his left hand. His right sleeve hangs empty.

“I know,” Jack says, and Rhys raises his eyebrows. His hand is warm and dry in Jack’s. “Detective Jack Lawrence,” Jack says, flashing his badge. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

Rhys hand stills in his, then withdraws slowly.

“What seems to be the problem?” Rhys says, leaning on the door again. “Detective.” It might be Jack’s imagination, but it sounds like Rhys puts the slightest emphasis on his title, and the hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stand on end.

Jack fishes out Simmon’s mug shot from an inside pocket. “Do you know this man?” he asks, holding it just out of Rhys’ reach.

Rhys leans forward, brows drawing down as he inspects the photo. “Should I?” he says, straightening.

This is stupid, so stupid. “He seems to know you,” Jack says.

Rhys’ eyes flick back up to his, and he shrugs. “It’s a big city. He might have passed me on the street.” Rhys snaps his fingers. “Is he an Atlas hopeful? We turn away far more applicants than we can ever hire.”

“Yeah. About that,” Jack says, tucking the photo away again. “What is it your company does, exactly?”

The corner of Rhys’ mouth twitches. “Interested in applying yourself? We can always use a man of your -” his eyes flick Jack up and down again “- skills.”

“Nice dodge. Answer the question.”

Rhys raises an eyebrow. “Do I need a lawyer for this conversation, detective?”

“I don’t know,” Jack says, leaning forward. “Do you?”

There’s a long moment where Rhys doesn’t answer, just stares Jack dead in the eye. Jack breathes slowly through his nose, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, acutely conscious of the gun strapped to his side.

Rhys’ lips turn up, then the smile stretches wide across his face.

“I’d be happy to answer all of your questions about Atlas, detective, but not at -” Rhys leans back, looking somewhere to the left in his apartment. “10:30 at night. How about we talk tomorrow, at say, six? My place. We’ll make a night of it.” Rhys winks and Jack shifts back on his heels, flattening his hand against his thigh.

“Tomorrow,” Jack says, and it feels like he’s handing over something irreversible. “Be here.”

“Oh, I will,” Rhys promises, already closing the door. “Goodnight, detective.” The door shuts on Rhys’ smile, half in shadow, and Jack blows out a breath.

Rhys is lying. He could probably pass a polygraph but he’s _lying_ , Jack can _feel_ it.

Now he just has to prove it.

 

* * *

 

The Tassiter case, or as Nisha puts it, “that bone you won’t let go of,” is the one thing that stands between Jack and early retirement. It would be easy enough to let it go, move on to greener pastures; consulting, maybe, or private security - Jack hears there’s good money in that. But every time he thinks he’s ready to drop it, to give this place the double finger on the way out, something like Simmons shows up and sets the itch off under Jack’s skin again.

Bringing in Harold Tassiter should have been the highlight of his career. _Would_ have been, if Tassiter had had the sense to know when he was beaten; instead he’d sneered at Jack’s arrest warrant, at _Jack_ , and the next thing Jack knew Tassiter was on his back with Jack’s hands wrapped around his neck. Nisha had pulled him off before he could do any real damage; pity, but Jack supposes if Tassiter had ended up with anything more than a ring of bruises around his throat Jack would have been looking at the inside of jail cell rather than being busted back to desk duty.

Nevertheless - Tassiter was just the beginning, the first in a long chain of dominoes that should have made leaps and bounds toward cleaning up this city. But the Tassiter case is in its 18th month in court, and despite the fact that the face of organized crime has spent the last two years in maximum security, the city’s underworld doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo.

Which tells Jack that they - that _he_ missed someone.

Simmons had been a long shot; a hunch, really. He was too small of a fish to have gathered much official notice, but he kept turning up: a known associate of a minor drug dealer, a regular at a money laundering front, in the periphery of one too many “accidental” deaths. It had taken a lot of wheedling and a promise to buy the next several rounds of drinks to get Nisha to even bring him in, but once Simmons had cracked -

Jack hadn’t been sure Simmons would pay off at all. He certainly hadn’t expected him to pay off like _this_.

Rhys’ hips are canted slightly to the side as he pours two glasses of wine, the slim fit of his slacks hugging his ass. He sets the bottle aside and picks up a glass, taking a sip and humming approvingly. He picks up the other and turns, extending it out, and Jack thinks about taking the bottle and smashing it over Rhys’ head and dragging him down to the station. He could say Rhys was resisting arrest - just something, _anything_ , to hold him long enough for Jack to find something on him.

It wouldn’t work. Rhys’ lawyers would get him out almost as fast as the suspension order would reach Jack’s desk.

Jack takes the wine and drinks.

“Good?” Rhys asks.

It is; smooth and dark and nothing he can identify. As if he knows anything about wine.

He knows about this, though: about the way Rhys is watching him from over the rim of his own glass, about the way he’s leaning back against the counter, one bare foot crossed over the other. Blue peeks out from underneath his shirt collar and Jack thinks about Rhys answering the door last night in just a robe and sleep pants, about how Jack already knows how far down that tattoo goes.

“Now, detective.” Rhys tilts his wine, watching the red liquid skim the inside of the glass. “What can I tell you about Atlas?”

Jack settles himself against the opposite counter. “You can start by telling me what you do.”

Rhys shrugs. “We make things.” He waves the fingers of his right hand as an example, and Jack’s eyebrows raise. “We move things. But mostly what we do is match individuals with opportunity; the modern economy is all about finding the right person for the right job, and that’s what Atlas aims to do.”

Jack waits, but Rhys just takes a sip of his wine, apparently finished. “That’s it? That’s your story?”

Rhys laughs. “Does 23% market share sound like a ‘story’ to you, detective?”

“Even the worst fronts sometimes make money.” Rhys raises his eyebrows at the word _front_ , and Jack is digging himself in too deep here, but Rhys makes his skin itch in the same way an almost-solved puzzle does, like if Jack could just turn this picture the right way all the pieces would fall into place. “With that kind of profit, what are you doing living in a building like this?” It’s a decent enough building, but if Atlas is making the kind of money Rhys is implying, he should be living somewhere far swankier than what a detective’s salary can afford.

Rhys shrugs. “I like the neighborhood.” His gaze sweeps Jack up and down, and when he meets Jack’s eyes again Rhys smiles slow and promising. “I like the view.”

Jack toys with the stem of his glass while he weighs the decision, then sets the wine aside and steps forward, leaning in until he can feel the heat radiating off of Rhys’ body, from underneath that too-expensive collared shirt. Rhys tilts his head but waits for Jack to make the last move.

“You can’t hide forever,” Jack says, and Rhys’ eyes sparkle.

“Who’s hiding?” he murmurs, and Jack’s hands tighten on the counter.

Rhys’ smile tastes just as smug as it looks. He’s pushy, which - Jack didn’t know what he expected. But it wasn’t this: Rhys surging forward once Jack’s lips touch his, pushing until Jack’s back hits the fridge. Rhys moves with him, fingers curling about Jack’s belt, knuckles grazing Jack’s stomach. Rhys’ mouth is demanding, moving against his in a dirty slide that has Jack growling back against his lips.

Rhys moves to slide a knee between his, and Jack seizes him by the arms, walking him none-too-gently backward toward what Jack assumes is the bedroom. Rhys breaks the kiss, laughing, and tries to shrug Jack’s hands off, but Jack’s having none of it; he tightens his grip, shoving Rhys back against the hallway and leaning in to mouth at Rhys’ neck. Rhys sighs prettily into his ear, hands coming to rest against Jack’s waist as he presses closer.

“Are you -” His breath hitches as Jack bites into the tendon between neck and shoulder. His hands pull Jack’s hips even closer, and Jack can feel Rhys already half-hard against him. “Are you sure you want to do this in the hall?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Jack mutters, sliding his hands down Rhys’ arms until he gets to Rhys’ wrists, pulling them up and pinning them over Rhys’ head, thinking about the handcuffs he shouldn’t carry off-duty.

“But _detective_.” Jack hates, _hates_ the roll Rhys puts on that word, this just side of insolent. “It’s _our_ first time.”

Jack pulls back until he can see Rhys’ face. Rhys’ lips are red and wet, and his pupils are blown, but he’s eyeing Jack from under his lashes like he knows something Jack doesn’t.

“This is a one-time thing,” Jack tries.

“Sure.” Rhys flexes his wrists and grins at the way Jack’s grip tightens. “Whatever you say.”

This is a bad idea. But he’s has had plenty of bad ideas, Jack thinks as he leans in to wipe that smirk off Rhys’ lips with his own.

What’s one more?

 

* * *

 

This is a mistake.

Jack runs his hands up Rhys’ thighs and over his ass and Rhys hums into his mouth, hips grinding back against the line of Jack’s dick straining against his pants, his body a solid weight caging Jack back against the bed. Jack tries to shift, to turn them over but Rhys just breaks the kiss laughing, holding Jack in place with a smooth flex of his thighs. He strips them of their clothing quickly enough, and Jack runs his hands up Rhys’s smooth back, feeling the muscles flex underneath his hands as Rhys leans over to the bedside table.

Rhys doesn’t let him help, holding him in place with his metal palm flat against Jack’s chest as he reaches the other behind himself, although he does hiss appreciatively when Jack’s fingers close around Rhys’ dick. Jack strokes slowly, caught up in the expressions chasing themselves over Rhys’ face as he slowly works himself open. His own dick twitches when Rhys bites his lip on a moan, and when Rhys reaches behind himself to hold Jack’s dick steady Jack’s hips buck up to meet him.

Jack’s own groan matches Rhys’ as he works himself down onto Jack’s cock, each rock of Rhys’ hips sinking Jack another inch into that tight heat. Rhys is panting shallowly by the time he’s fully seated, sweat-damp hair starting to fall out of that perfect coiff as he starts to move. Jack’s hips snap up to meet him, and Rhys’ head falls back on a sigh, exposing the long line of his neck. Jack aches to sink his teeth into that pale skin, but Rhys’ eyes snap open when Jack shifts to sit up and he leans back into the hand on Jack’s chest, pinning him in place.

“Maybe next time, detective,” he says, and Jack’s dick twitches at the roll he puts on _detective_. Rhys grins, sharp in the dim bedroom light. “I have to be presentable at work tomorrow.” Jack growls, snapping his hips up. Rhys gasps, eyes drifting shut on a lazy grin as he shifts to meet the roll of Jack’s hips, thighs flexing underneath Jack’s hands.

“Temper,” he murmurs, eyes sparkling from beneath his lashes. “Don’t want you doing something you’d regret.”

He closes his eyes before Jack can reply, grinding his hips back in a way that has Jack curving his fingers into Rhys’ thighs, heels digging into the bed as his hips jerk up. He’s close, he’s so close, he just needs -

Rhys wraps his fingers around his own dick, biting his lip as he strokes himself. In a few moments his body wrings tight around Jack’s dick, mouth falling open as he stripes Jack’s stomach. He slumps forward, catching himself on Jack’s chest, and when he opens his eyes again the look of hot satisfaction there snaps the tension building in Jack’s gut and he closes his eyes as his own release catches up to him.

Rhys doesn’t kick him out immediately after, which Jack had half expected; instead he mumbles something about showering, disentangling himself and sliding off the bed, heading for the attached bathroom. Jack stares at the ceiling, still catching his breath as the water turns on.

“Are you coming?” Rhys’ voice floats around the open bathroom door, over the sound of the shower spray. He sounds unconcerned, like it doesn’t matter what Jack chooses.

Maybe it doesn’t. Jack holds his breath, staring at the ceiling and counting to ten like his court-ordered therapist had told him. Ten doesn’t bring him any clarity, and he blows out the breath.

Then he slides off the bed and heads for the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

“You frown at that any harder and it’s likely to combust.” Nisa’s voice jerks him out of his reverie, and Jack looks up to see her drop into her own chair at the desk across from his. “Still no ID, huh?”

Jack looks back down at the sketch of Rhys in his hands. It’s soft and creased from being folded and shoved in his jacket pocket for the better part of a week, but it’s still recognizable.

To him, anyway. He had run Rhys’ driver’s license photo through the facial recognition software, and it had returned a 68% point match with the sketch in his hands. Reasonable, but - beyond a reasonable doubt? Probably not.

“No,” he says shortly, refolding it and tucking it away. “You find anything?”

“Nada.” Nisha starts unpacking containers of takeout and Jack’s stomach rumbles. “Relax, I brought you some.” She shoves a plastic container across the desk and Jack opens it to find fresh pad thai, still steaming.

“Marry me,” he says, and Nisha laughs.

“Not a chance,” she says, tossing him a pair of chopsticks. “They’d reassign you, and I’d have to break in someone else.”

Jack hums in agreement, already digging in. Nisha’s been the best partner he’s had on the force. She wields the rule of law like any other weapon; a kindred spirit, in that regard, and he’d thanked whoever was listening the day they’d been assigned together. She’s followed him down more than one crazy hunch, so it feels strange, to keep this from her now, but this one is - different. Jack hasn’t nailed down quite _how_ yet, but he can’t shake the feeling that the wrong move, trusting the wrong person, will bring everything crashing down around his ears. He’s on thin enough ice with administration as it is. If they knew he’d been talking to a person of interest, that he’d _fucked_ someone connected to a case at all -

Suspension would be the least of it. That’s grounds for termination, and Jack’s not ready to go out like that. Not yet.

“In any case,” Nisha says, swallowing. “That piece of paper’s about to become a real hot property, so don’t go waving it around. The sketch,” she clarifies when Jack just looks at her. “I just heard from Zed that they wheeled a hit and run into his office this morning. The face is pretty scraped up but preliminary ID says it’s Simmons. No plates, of course,” she says, shaking her head and spearing a piece of beef. Jack sits very still. “Think we should have taken out a pool? He lasted longer than most, but still.”

Jack takes a mechanical bite of his food, then another, but he’s not seeing his noodles; he’s seeing Rhys’ face peering at Simmons’ mugshot. Had there been a flash of calculation before he pulled back and denied everything? The light hadn’t been great, and Rhys had been - or had been _playing_ half asleep. Jack has testified to less, but a coincidental death and a half-remembered look in a dim hallway aren’t going to be enough, not this time.

Jack needs something more.

 

* * *

 

Someone catches the building door behind him as Jack pulls it open and Jack nearly elbows them in the face on principle; looking over his shoulder he sees a young man, skinny enough to have a drug habit, with a forgettable haircut and an atrocious jean jacket. The kid’s momentum nearly plows him into Jack, but he pulls himself up short, glaring as if Jack’s the problem here.

“Forget your keys?” Jack says, standing halfway over the threshold. He doesn’t recognize this kid; doesn’t mean he couldn’t be new, or visiting, but -

“Yeah,” the kid says, too fast to be anything but a lie. “Yeah, keys. Forgot ‘em.”

“Gonna be a problem getting in your apartment, then,” Jack says, watching the nervous tic under the kid’s left eye.

“I - my roommate’ll let me in.” The kid scowls. “What do you care, man?”

“I don’t,” Jack says, moving inside and letting the kid push past him. “Just curious,” he says, more to himself than anything else, watching the kid start up the stairs two at a time. He follows at a more sedate pace, pausing on the landing, out of sight of the second floor, but close enough to hear footsteps pound down the second floor hallway and frantic knocking about halfway down.

It’s a hunch, but Jack would bet anything that’s Rhys’ door.

Sure enough, just as Jack sets one careful foot on the the next stair there’s the sound of a door opening and Rhys’ unamused, “What.”

“Hey, I, uh - Look, I know you said not to come here, but -”

“Shut up.” Rhys sounds pissed, and Jack would give anything to be able to see his face. “Get in here.” Jack double-times it up the stairs, but by the time he reaches the second floor landing Rhys’ door is shut and the hallway is empty.

Jack stands in the hallway, bouncing his keys in his palm, weighing the decision.

It’s not long - fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, just long enough for Jack’s butt to start to go numb on the hard stair - before Rhys’ door opens again.

“Don’t - no, don’t argue,” Rhys is saying as the door opens. “Talk to August, or his mother, I don’t care, but if I see your face again in a ten block radius -” he stops short as he catches sight of Jack in the stairwell.

“Roommate, huh,” Jack says as the kid slinks out of the apartment. The kid starts, glancing between them, a sly grin starting on his face.

“What’s this, some kinda jealous boyfriend?” he says, sauntering toward Jack, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Something like that,” Jack says, standing and sweeping his coat back to so his badge - and his gun - show prominently on his belt.

The kid stops short. “Aw shit man, I didn’t -” He stops and looks back at Rhys, who’s watching with a flat, placid expression. “I don’t want any trouble.”

Rhys raises an eyebrow. “Then I suggest you leave before it finds you,” he says mildly.

“I didn’t -” Rhys’ expression doesn’t change, and Jack feels like he’s missing half the conversation but there’s no mistaking the way the kid’s face drains of color. He hunches his shoulders and turns away from Rhys, sliding past Jack and clattering down the stairs. Jack locks eyes with Rhys, hearing the way the kid’s footsteps break into a run when he hits the foyer.

Rhys sighs, holding the door open. “Coming?”

Jack hates himself for how quickly he goes.

He’s looking for evidence; that’s what he tells himself as he steps over the threshold, but he finds himself pinned against the door with Rhys’ hand tight in his hair and Rhys’ tongue hot in his mouth and it’s easy to kiss back, to slide his hands around Rhys’ waist and tell himself there’ll be time for questions later. Rhys rides him hard, almost angrily, thighs flexing underneath Jack’s hands and face furrowed in concentration as he strokes himself. Jack finds himself watching Rhys’ face carefully as Rhys fucks himself on Jack’s cock and when Jack finally comes, it’s to the sight of Rhys’ face blank with pleasure as his release wrings his body tight.

Later, when Rhys is drowsing next to him, draped in a dark sheet with a higher threadcount than Jack can even estimate, Jack stares at the ceiling and wonders how deep he is.

“Who was that kid?” He asks softly. He’s not really expecting an answer, but it feels like it needs to be asked.

Rhys stirs. “No one you need to worry about,” he says, voice heavy with sleep as he leans over. The brush of his lips over Jack’s forehead are dry and warm, and when Jack finally closes his eyes Rhys’ chuckle follows him down into sleep.

 

* * *

 

Three days later Jack stares down at the remains of the kid’s face in the city morgue and breathes slowly, counting to ten. The anger he’d felt in Tassiter’s office had been a quick-burning flash of rage so hot it had whited out his senses, long enough for him to get his hands around that bastard’s scrawny neck. This is slower; this curls heavy in his gut and his veins and tastes like ashes on his tongue.

“John Doe,” Dr. Zed says, handing over the clipboard. “Double gunshot to the head. No wallet on him, but we’re running the tattoos now. He match your person of interest?”

“Unfortunately.” Jack flips through the file. There’s not much there - found behind a dumpster on 53rd and Broadway. Looked like he’d been dumped.

53rd and Broadway is almost exactly ten blocks from Jack and Rhys’ building. Jack carefully unclenches his fingers and hands the clipboard back.

“Thanks, Zed,” Jack says. “I owe you one.”

Dr. Zed waves him off. “You owe me several, but I know where to cash in. Go on, get out of here before IA jerks your leash.”

Jack pauses with one hand on the door. “Internal Affairs cleared me.”

“They cleared you for the Tassiter thing, yeah. Whatever you’re doing now?” Zed shakes his head. “All I know is there were two suits here yesterday asking if I’d seen you off your desk recently.” Zed grins wide. “Good thing they asked yesterday, hey?”

“Yeah,” Jack says through the ringing in his ears. “Good thing.”

Dr. Zed makes a shooing motion. “It’s not worth my job to lie for you, so get gone before anyone notices.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” Jack rolls his eyes as he pushes through the door, and it swings shut on Zed’s amused huff.

Jack slips his sunglasses on as he exits the building. Internal Affairs is...worrying. Jack’s case - so to speak - is built entirely on circumstantial evidence; just until he can find something better, something _real_. The last thing he needs is investigation into his methods. At best, this is just a random spot check, at worst -

“Tough day at the office?” Jack slows on the stairs as a familiar voice jolts him out of his thoughts.

“But then,” Rhys continues, coming up from the sidewalk. “This _isn’t_ your office, is it.” His eyes are hidden behind dark lenses, shaded against the mid-morning sun, but his smile spreads wide and false beneath them.

At worst. At worst, someone _set_ Internal Affairs after him.

Jack’s not stupid enough to think bribery doesn’t happen in the force. He’s taken more than a few himself - but to have the _balls_ to set an internal department after him -

Rhys looks up at him, grinning. “Something you want to say, detective?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, closing the few steps between them. “Yeah, there is.” He stops on the step just above Rhys and Rhys tilts his head back. Jack can see himself reflected in Rhys’ sunglasses.

“I don’t know what kind of fucking _game_ you think this is,” he hisses, and it’s not until he hears his own voice trembling with rage that Jack realizes he’s angry, incandescently so, the heavy curl from earlier sparked into flame by a perfect haircut and mocking smile. “But I am _not_ playing.”

“But you play so well,” Rhys says, raising a hand toward Jack’s shoulder - maybe to rest it there, maybe to brush an imaginary piece of lint off, Jack doesn’t know - but he doesn’t make it, Jack’s hand snapping up and catching Rhys’ wrist.

“Careful with that temper, detective,” Rhys murmurs, tilting his head enough that he can peer at Jack over the top of his glasses. “It’ll get you in all kinds of trouble.”

Jack’s grip tightens, bone and tendon shifting under his fingers, and Rhys gasps quietly - but his eyes are shining, locked with Jack’s, and he’s right, dammit, this is a public place and they’re already drawing attention -

Jack tosses Rhys’ wrist aside and shoulders past him, taking the steps two at a time until he reaches the sidewalk, reaching into his pocket with shaking fingers for his keys. He hits the remote-start on his bike while he’s still two strides away, eager to get away - because the longer he stays, the greater the odds he’s going to turn around and deck Rhys right in the face, public place or not.

Jack jams his helmet on his head and slides on, the bike thrumming warm and familiar between his legs, but he can’t help glancing back one more time.

Rhys hasn’t moved, still standing half-turned on the steps, and it’s hard to tell from here but it looks like his eyes have a thoughtful cast to them. Jack’s fingers flex around the handlebars.

Jack revs the engine and pulls into traffic. He’d better find something, and fast.

 

* * *

 

Not fucking fast enough, apparently. Jack stares at the letter in his hand and tries to remember how to breathe.

“This is - this is _bullshit_ ,” he snarls, slamming the letter back down on his desk. It _is_ \- these are trumped up charges, he’s seen worse; hell, he’s _done_ worse and gotten away with it -

The bullpen falls silent and Jack looks up to find Williams standing in his office doorway, arms folded.

“You’re suspended, Lawrence,” he says, and suddenly no one will look at Jack.

“On what grounds,” Jack growls.

“Violation of desk probation. Unauthorized retention of classified files. There’s more.” Williams raises an eyebrow. “Do I need to go on?”

He doesn’t. Jack’s read the letter - this is still bullshit but it’ll stick. He can’t fight this here, not if he ever wants to come back.

Jack draws in a breath, holds it, and lets it out all at once. “No. _Sir_ ,” he spits. He yanks his jacket off of his chair and shrugs it on violently as William nods and closes his office door behind him.

Everyone’s suddenly very busy with their work, except for Nisha, who tries to catch him on the way out. “Jack -”

“Save it,” he says, brushing her hand off. He’s not in the mood for company; he’s not in the mood for pity.

She lets him go, and if that isn’t some kind of fucking metaphor for his life Jack doesn’t know what is.

 

* * *

 

Jack’s reading the copy of Rhys’ file he’s not supposed to keep at home for the hundredth or thousandth time when he’s interrupted by a knock at the door. He almost doesn’t answer it - he’s not expecting company; maybe someone got the wrong door - but then the knock comes again and Jack has a sudden, terrible premonition that he knows who’s on the other side.

The sight of Rhys’ face on the other side feels inevitable. The bottle of whiskey in one hand and the pair of tumblers in the other are a bit of a surprise.

“Peace offering,” Rhys says, hefting the bottle so Jack can see the label. It’s good; expensive. “Can I come in?”

Jack should say no, and shut the door. Jack should arrest him for - for trying to bribe an officer of the law. For _something_. Jack should punch him in his stupid face because Jack is pretty sure that everything, somehow, comes back to this man.

Jack steps aside and lets Rhys sweep past him, into the apartment. He shuts the door behind him, making sure to set the lock.

“Is this about me?” Rhys says, uncorking the whiskey. He nods at the papers spread over Jack’s kitchen table and Jack scowls, moving to gather them up as Rhys pours.

“Not everything is about you,” he says, and Rhys laughs like he can hear the bald-faced lie for what it is. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you,” Rhys says, holding out a glass. “Peace offering.” He holds a glass out and Jack takes it, fingers brushing Rhys’ before Rhys pulls his hand away.

“Are we at war?” Jack says, and Rhys laughs again as he lifts his own glass.

“I’m not. But I think you might be, detective. So, here,” Rhys holds his own glass out. “To new beginnings. A fresh start.”

Jack stares. This feels like a trap but he can’t see it, can’t see anything except the expectant look on Rhys’ face and the faint outline of a sketch. Rhys must have an angle here, there’s no other explanation -

But the only way out is forward, so Jack lifts his glass and taps it gently against Rhys’.

“To the future,” he says, and Rhys grins.

“I’ll drink to that,” Rhys says, lifting his glass and taking a sip, and Jack follows suit. The alcohol burns warm and comforting through his veins, and he exhales on a sigh.

Rhys steps forward, and his lips on Jack’s are as warm and familiar as ever; pushy and demanding and far more addictive than Jack wants to even think about. Jack sets his glass aside so he can slide a hand up the back of Rhys’ neck, into his hair, and Rhys hums into his mouth.

Rhys is - well, he’s never exactly _compliant_ , but he does give a little more easily tonight, letting Jack roll them over and fuck into him with deep, sharp strokes that have Rhys gasping and clawing at the bedsheets. He comes with a smile on his lips and Jack’s hand around his dick; Jack can’t look away, his own orgasm a dim, secondary thing.

Later, when their breathing has slowed and Rhys has slung a loose, proprietary arm across Jack’s middle, Jack toys with the hairs at the base of Rhys’ neck and asks, “Is this a confession?”

Rhys stirs, propping himself up and looking at Jack from inches away. His hair is mussed and sweat damp, but his eyes are amused and his grin is as maddening as always.

“Yes,” he says, leaning up to press a gentle kiss to Jack’s cheek. It burns like a brand.

Then he drops his head back down to Jack’s chest, and no matter what Jack tries he won’t say any more about it.

* * *

 

When Jack wakes in the morning he’s alone.

The bed is empty; Jack rolls out of it and slides into a pair of boxers, padding through the apartment. The bottle is gone from the kitchen table, the tumblers with them. Jack eyes the condensation rings on the table as he flips through the file left abandoned. Nothing seems to be missing. He hadn’t really expected otherwise.

Jack showers and dresses, making coffee automatically as he absently checks: keys, wallet, phone; badge, handcuffs, gun. He’s not really supposed to carry the latter while he’s on suspension, but what Williams doesn’t know hopefully won’t bite Jack in the ass later. He sets his mug in the sink when he’s done and stares at it as if it can tell him why he feels so unsettled in his own skin. It can’t; Jack rolls his shoulders and grabs his jacket on the way out. He’s not really sure where he’s going - not to work, that’s for sure - but suddenly he needs to be somewhere anywhere but here with Rhys’ file staring at him.

The garage is cool and dim as Jack exits the stairwell, lit only by a few haphazard fluorescents. He crosses the garage toward his bike, sitting perfectly straight in its slot.

Jack’s footsteps slow as he gets closer. The bike is sitting perfectly straight, wheels perfectly parallel to the grubby white lines on either side.

Jack never parks perfectly straight. Character flaw, Nisha says; either that or a metaphor. Jack figures as long as he’s in the lines - or not too far over them - it doesn’t matter, but it might matter now.

It might matter a whole fucking lot.

There’s the faint jingle of keys behind him and Jack whirls around.

“Hey neighbor.” Rhys flashes him a grin as the stairwell door swings shut behind him, looking pressed and fresh and not at all like he spent the night wrapped up in Jack’s bed. Rhys bounces his keys in his hand. “Going somewhere?”

Jack watches the keys fall back into Rhys’ palm as if in slow motion. He thinks about pulling away from the curb yesterday morning, Rhys’ eyes hot and heavy on his back. He thinks about his bike sitting unnaturally straight in it’s spot behind him, about the way that Rhys has never, ever come to his door before.

Rhys presses his key fob as he approaches. The lights flash on the sedan to Jack’s left, casting Rhys’ face in sharp relief, his eyes dark and expectant.

Jack slowly pulls his keys out of his pocket, locks eyes with Rhys, and presses the _start_ button.

The blast knocks him off his feet and into Rhys, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Shrapnel peppers his back in a stinging rain, bouncing off the pavement with a dull staccato chorus. Jack shakes his head to try to clear the ringing, pushing up and untangling himself from Rhys as he turns to look at the smoking hull where his bike used to be. Something stings in his eye, and Jack wipes at his face. It comes away streaked with red.

Rhys pushes himself up on his elbows next to him. He looks down at his suit with a little frown of dismay, and Jack _knows_.

He lunges at Rhys, ignoring the squawk of protest, wrestling Rhys on his stomach and pulling his arms together at the small of his back. The _snick_ of the cuffs closing around Rhys’ left wrist sends a thrum of satisfaction through Jack’s chest; when it closes around his right Rhys stops struggling and looks back over his shoulder.

“You are _under arrest_ , motherfucker,” Jack snarls before Rhys can get a word out.

Rhys presses his lips together, and it almost looks like he’s laughing. “On what charge?”

“Attempted murder. Actual murder. Bribery of a police officer. Destruction of property. Take your pick.” Jack hauls Rhys to his feet. “I’m sure I can come up with more.” He scoops Rhys’ keys off the ground and manhandles him over to the car. “You have the right to remain silent, although please - keep talking,” he says as he shoves Rhys in the backseat. Rhys topples on his side, unable to right himself. “You have the right to a lawyer, but that’s not going to keep me from marching you straight downtown.” Jack slams the door shut and gets behind the wheel.

“Downtown?” Rhys asks as he pushes himself upright, only to fall the other way into the door as Jack peels out of the garage.

“You’re not walking on this one,” Jack grits out through his teeth as he speeds down the arterial toward the river that separates upcity from down.

“I see.” Rhys hums and falls silent for a few moments, and Jack breathes a sigh of relief as he blows through a yellow light. But then, because Rhys apparently can’t keep his fucking mouth shut - “What evidence, _exactly_ , do you have against me?”

Jack brakes hard, swerving to the shoulder just before the bridge. He breathes deliberately through his nose and counts to ten, fingers wrapped around the leather of the steering wheel. When he looks up, Rhys is watching him in the rearview mirror, the barest smile on his lips.

“You tried to kill me,” Jack says to the mirror.

“Did I?” Rhys tuts. “If I had tried to kill you, you’d be dead. I killed your bike.”

“Which I could have been _on_ ,” Jack emphasizes.

“If you had been, you’d have deserved it. But I don’t think you’re that stupid.” Rhys leans forward. “Am I wrong?”

No. Yes. Jack doesn’t know.

“It won’t matter,” Rhys murmurs, and Jack feels ice creep up his spine. “They won’t take you back. I’ll walk in a matter of hours and all of your so-called _evidence_ will be contaminated. All of that work, down the drain,” he says thoughtfully, and Jack’s knuckles whiten. “Everything attached to your name, shoved in an old file box and crammed in a dusty corner. Unfortunate.”

“You’re never going to be a cop again, Jack,” Rhys says, sure and confident like he’s not eviscerating the last of Jack’s self control. “Not here, not anywhere else.”

Jack clenches his teeth to stop the scream that’s building in his lungs and rests his forehead on the steering wheel. He breathes in and out, and counts to ten. It doesn’t help.

Rhys waits, like he has all the time in the world, like he knows which way Jack will jump, and that smug silence is the last fucking straw.

Jack jerks his seatbelt off and kicks the driver’s door open. He rounds the car and practically tears the back door off its hinges, and Rhys’ eyes widen as Jack reaches in. Whatever plan Rhys had this is clearly not a part of it, and Jack revels in the surprised huff as he pulls Rhys out of the car. He drags Rhys down the embankment, out of sight of the road, and shoves him on his knees before the slow-moving river. Rhys grunts as his knees hit the mud, and whatever he’s about to say dies as Jack shoves his gun against the back of Rhys’ head.

“You’re right,” Jack says, and the grin he can feel on his face is wide and manic. The wind picks up, whipping Rhys’ careful coif around the barrel of Jack’s gun. It’s the best thing Jack’s seen all day. “I’m not a cop anymore. Maybe I never was.”

“Is this the part where I beg for my life?” Rhys asks, carefully not moving. His voice doesn’t shake at all. “Because I won’t.”

“No,” Jack says cocking the pistol. The sound is loud even over the wind and the traffic up on the road. “This is where you offer me a job.”

Rhys goes very still. There’s a long moment where the only sounds are the wind and the traffic - and then Rhys’ shoulders start to shake, and then he bursts out laughing.

“ _This_ is how you ask?” He says, turning carefully so he can look at Jack.

“Had to make sure you gave the right answer,” Jack says. “Which you still haven’t,” he says, poking Rhys with the barrel meaningfully.

Rhys struggles to his feet and turns. Jack steps back, giving him space, although he doesn’t holster the gun. Rhys’ suit is ruined, stained with grass and dirt from the ground and streaked with motor oil from the garage floor, and his hands are still cuffed behind him but he way he smiles at Jack, wide and blinding, leaves all of that behind.

“I knew you weren’t stupid,” Rhys says confidently. “And like I told you - Atlas can always use a man of your skills.” His grin narrows, smaller but no less sharp. “How do you feel about private security? I hear there’s good money in the bodyguard business.” He half-turns, pointedly presenting his still-cuffed hands.

“Whose body?” Jack asks, holstering the gun and digging out the key.

“Mine, of course,” Rhys says smoothly as the cuffs fall away. He rubs his wrists as he turns back to face Jack. “You are, after all, already familiar with it.”

Jack laughs, short and sharp, and then once he starts he can’t stop, the mounting tension of the last several weeks finally snapped and breaking free in loud, hysterical laughter. He stumbles back on the embankment and sits abruptly, putting his head in his hands as he tries to get control. When he feels like he can breathe without giggling he looks back up at Rhys.

“That easy, huh?” He can’t believe he’s doing this. He can’t believe he didn’t do this _before_.

Rhys shrugs. “If you want it to be.” He holds out a hand. “You ready?”

Jack stares at Rhys’ hand for a long moment. There’s no going back from this, if he says yes.

Then Jack reaches out, and lets Rhys pull him up and into the future. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at ThirtySixSaveFiles on Tumblr!


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